01 July 2007

Kwame Dawes

[from Kwame Dawes's Impossible Flying, 2007]

Ward

The dirt track turns to marl in the wind tunnelbetween Maternity — the pale yellow gowns of swollenwomen, a constant slash of light through the graylouvres — and the whitewashed ward where you are.My heart grows as I walk by casually,trying to pretend I have forgotten your eyes pleadingwith me in the brightly lit greeting room,pointing to the stumble and glossolaliaof the pretty girl who does not care that her breastsare poking out of the too small hospital issuegreen tunic. Around us the sterile slow paceof medicated bodies. Like her, I imaginethat you don’t belong; I imagine you are tooastute, too collected for this; your pathologiesare civil things. And yet I see the scarson your knuckles, and you drool, how you drool,your tongue, not yours, just a clumsy lumpof meat in your mouth. You are telling me you needto go, lucid as anyone I know, until you laugh,reminding me of the morning I held you down,tied your wings, did not have the faith;and in that same clean logic, your eyesstared steadily at me as you spoke in softconspiracy, I woulda be flying now,you know that? I woulda be flying if you neverhold me down . . . It has been a weeksince I stopped. That last time the orderliestold me of the straps you strained against,the electricity, the padded walls, the shitin your pants, the tears, as if you weresomeone else, as if they needed meto understand the lunatic’s dialect, as ifthey saw in me the hubris of class, or the hopeof sanity; as if I did not understandthe commonness of tragedy. That day I did not stop.I simply bowed my head and walked awayweeping, angry at my tears, at the noble sorrow — as if it was me caught in this wrestlewith the chemistry of the head — the demon tyranny.I wept (a good verb) like an actor, testing each mood,swept, yes, by the passion of the narrative,but consumed by the tragic consequenceof fear. I wept as I walked the stony pathto Papine, helpless like that. Tonightis the seventh night I have walked past.It becomes easier, now. I fear onlythat you will see me going by, not stopping.Maybe you will see my lips moving, prayingfor the miracle promised — another vanity — the scripted prophecy of my peace.